clenched teeth. “First they said Lance did it to himself as a ploy to get an early release. Now they’re saying it was an accident? Someone tried to murder him, Mother, and no one, not one person, believes it when I try to tell them so. How could they already write what happened off as a so-called accident when Lance is still unconscious and no one has bothered to interview the person it happened to? That makes no sense. It’s a cover-up, plain and simple.”
Phyllis said nothing aloud, although her silence spoke volumes. For some reason, she seemed to have drawn the same conclusions the investigators had—that Lance was somehow responsible for his own injuries. Angered by her mother’s complicit agreement with the rest of the world, LeAnne stood up abruptly, dropped the remainder of her sandwich in the trash, and donned the required paper gown and slippers. “It’s time for me to go in,” she said.
ICU rules for the burn unit allowed patients to have one visitor per hour for five minutes at a time. LeAnne ducked into Lance’s room, wiping away unwelcome tears and hoping her mother hadn’t noticed them.
The room was dimly lit, with the blackout curtains pulled shut. The atmosphere hummed and buzzed with quiet noises from the collection of life-sustaining equipment arrayed around Lance’s bed. Oblivious to everything but her son’s pale face on the pillow, LeAnne stood at his bedside and let the tears course down her cheeks. His face looked fine—well, almost fine, if you could ignore the oxygen tube fastened under his nose or the fact that most of his eyebrows and eyelashes had been singed away. The drugs must have been working. As far as LeAnne could tell from his expression, he was resting comfortably. The problemwas, Lance’s face didn’t tell the whole story. She had seen the awful damage the hospital sheets kept hidden from view—the hideous seeping burns from his chest down, the broken bones, and now the missing leg.
Days earlier, before the surgeon took Lance into surgery to repair the compound fractures, he had warned LeAnne of the dangers of infection from the burns or from the surgical incisions. He had told her that Lance was receiving the very best treatment and that hospital personnel were doing everything they could, but still . . .
LeAnne had heard the momentary hesitation in the doctor’s voice. It had taken several days before she had filled in the blanks. The doctor had been trying to prepare her for the possibility that Lance might end up losing one or both of his legs. He hadn’t mentioned the other possible outcome, one that was far worse. Standing there, she realized that what had been unthinkable to begin with was now a very real possibility. Lance, her beloved firstborn child, might die.
In the long hours after the orderlies had wheeled him back into his room after the amputation, LeAnne Tucker had forced herself to come to terms with that life-shattering possibility: Lance might die, and that possibility brought another horrifying consideration into LeAnne’s life. If Lance died and the cops continued to blame him for what had happened, then whoever was responsible for his death might well get away with it.
LeAnne stood there for several of her paltry five minutes feeling as lost and alone as she had ever felt in her life. When the door swished open, she turned, expecting to see a doctor, since this was about the time of day when the doctors usually did rounds. Instead, a woman, properly paper-gowned for the occasion, entered the room and stood beside LeAnne. The new arrival wasn’t someone LeAnne had seen in the hospital before. This was an older woman, far older than any of the other nurses. Her hair, mostly white, was pulled back into a tight bun. She wore gold-framed glasses. On a chain around her neck, she wore a gold crucifix.
“You’re Lance’s new nurse?” LeAnne asked. “I’m his mother.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not a nurse. My name is Sister